Everybody was in deadly earnest, and the rehearsal went off very well, considering all its disadvantages. They had another in the afternoon; and by that time, they learned joyfully, a few seats had actually been booked in advance.
Ed Binney's cough had not improved, but he was kept up on strong, hot coffee, and they got through the performance that night, two men short, almost without a hitch. Nevertheless, though "Lord Bob" was a great New York success, as Sidney Cremer's comedies always were, and bristled with brilliant scenes and bright dialogue, it was a little above the heads of an average Ashville audience.
A few well, though plainly, dressed ladies and gentlemen were in the front seats, and all seemed to know each other, laughing and talking together between the acts; and among them, through a peephole in the curtain, Loveland recognised the nice-looking girl and old man he had seen staring at his home-made poster in the morning. The rest of the audience, however, were of the usual sort, and preferred wild melodrama to sparkling light comedy.
The profits of the first performance, and the next, were not what Val had expected, though the acting of the company improved; but on the last night Loveland tried to hope that Ashville would turn out in full force.
Having set the first scene himself, in default of a stage manager or competent stage hands, he applied an anxious eye to a small "spy-hole" in the curtain, and peeped out.
His heart sank. The house was half empty. But it was early still. There was hope yet. People were coming in. There was the old gentleman and the girl he had seen before, finding their way once more to the front seats. Someone was with them; they were bringing guests. That looked encouraging!
Val lingered at the "spy-hole."
The girl and her father sat down.
With them were Lesley Dearmer and her aunt, Mrs. Loveland.